Poisonfeather (Gibson Vaughn #2)(106)

“Very charitable of you,” the man said as he limped out into the hall.

They went back down the hall toward the presidential suite and the main staircase. Emerson lay in a tangle of his own limbs, his men both dead. His breathing was shallow, and his face was sallow and bathed in sweat. He didn’t have long. Gibson saw the remote detonator too late. Emerson smiled as he triggered it. A series of dull explosions rattled the floorboards beneath their feet, and a moment later Gibson felt the oxygen in the hall being inhaled greedily down the stairwell.

“I told you I would kill you all,” Emerson said as if the thought were a comfort.

Smoke poured into the hall, and even though they couldn’t see the fire, they could feel it. The temperature spiked twenty degrees in a matter of seconds. Gibson looked up at the sprinkler heads when they didn’t kick on. No alarm either. The dying man laughed at him and cursed them in Spanish. The man tugged Gibson’s arm and dragged him back the other way, and one last time they hobbled down the hallway of the fifth floor of the Wolstenholme Hotel. At Deja Noble, Gibson faltered, stopped, and hoisted her up over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. He wouldn’t be that kind of man either.

The drop from the fifth-floor window to the fire escape below left them bruised but not broken. Even after Gibson lowered the man out the window, it was still a fifteen-foot fall. The man clattered onto the fire escape and came up cursing, holding his wounded calf. Next went Deja, who Gibson dangled by a wrist.

“You’ve got to be kidding me with this,” the man said, but to Gibson’s surprise, he caught her. Maybe the guy wasn’t as much of an asshole as he seemed. Gibson followed, and by the time they reached the safety of the parking lot, the fire roared through the Wolstenholme Hotel like a funeral pyre. Even from fifty yards away, Gibson could feel its angry heat. He laid Deja out on the ground while the man shuffled over against a wall to check his calf. All around, townspeople huddled together in groups to watch the old hotel burn. Bearing witness to the end of an era.

“She would have killed you,” the man said, indicating Deja.

“I’ve stopped holding that against people.”

“There’s a hell of a story making the rounds about you at Langley.”

“You’re CIA?”

“And you’re Gibson Vaughn. Your father was Duke Vaughn.”

“And you would be?”

“Damon,” he replied and paused. “Damon Washburn.”

The man put out a hand. If that was his real name, Gibson would eat his hat, but he took the hand anyway.

“What’s the CIA got to do with Charles Merrick?”

“That’s not germane to this conversation.”

“Germane?” Maybe he was exactly that big an asshole. “So what story?”

“Something about you and the vice president in Atlanta.”

“Former vice president,” Gibson corrected.

“Guess you saw to that.”

“Had nothing to do with it.”

“Just like you had nothing to do with this?” Washburn pointed to the hotel. “Just awkward timing. That what you’re telling me?”

“Good luck with your leg,” Gibson said and walked away toward the Toproll. There was still a chance that Lea or Swonger had made it out, and he wasn’t much in the mood for Agent Damon Washburn or his accusations.

The man called after him. “Got to say, I was surprised to hear your name come out of a Chinese operative’s mouth. Even with your track record, I wouldn’t have seen that coming.”

That stopped Gibson in his tracks. “The hell are you talking about?” But the answer came to him before he finished asking the question. “I had no idea he was Chinese.”

“I’m sure that will fly when they try you for treason.”

Nope, definitely an asshole.

“What do you want from me?”

“Your help.”

Gibson pointed at the hotel. “You still haven’t thanked me for the last time.”

“Thank you for that. Now I need your help.”

“It’s been kind of a long day. Why don’t you call in the big boys? I’m tired.”

“I fully intend to do just that, but it’s the middle of the night in West Virginia. By the time my people mobilize, Merrick could be out of the country. So call you my fail-safe.”

“So other than falsely accusing me of treason, why should I help you?”

“The American way of life?” Washburn said.

“Oh, I already have one of those, trust me.”

“What about Jenn Charles? You got one of those?”

At the mention of her name, Gibson felt his heart leap. He tried hard to hide it from Washburn, though. “You know where she is?”

“No. But the Agency does. George Abe too.”

“Why is the CIA keeping tabs on Jenn and George?”

“Because you did a little more than burn down a hotel in Atlanta, didn’t you? The vice president died. We pay attention to that sort of thing.”

“So I help you, and you tell me where they are? That the idea?”

“That’s the idea.”

“Are they even alive?”

“Your Chinese associate—any idea where he might be?”